Trying to Breathe
by Crius96
Summary: John is trying to cope with Sherlock's jump from St. Bart's. He can't eat, and he keeps hearing voices. Even Mrs. Hudson can't cheer him up. A week after Sherlock is buried, a news article is released that sends John reeling, and on his way to Scotland Yard, more tragedy occurs. Is there any hope left for the ex-soldier, or is the rest of his life just a slow downward fall?


"No one could be that clever."

John stared up at the silhouette of his best friend on the roof, his pulse racing. He couldn't believe what was going on. He couldn't imagine why Sherlock was saying all of these things.

"You could." John had to distract him, had to make him focus on something solid. He didn't understand. When he had left Sherlock at Bart's, the man had had goals—a mission. He was planning on setting up a trap for Moriarty. People with goals, with plans for the future, didn't suddenly decide to commit suicide.

He heard Sherlock chuckle, heard the tears in his voice. _Shit, no_. John stamped down his fears, biting his tongue to keep from hyperventilating.

All he could think of, the only reason he could think that Sherlock would be up there, was because of _him_. He had yelled at Sherlock, had called him a machine. His lip quivered and he bit it, aware that Sherlock was talking again. He forced himself to pay attention.

"This phone call… it's my note."

John felt his knees weaken. _No, God. Please, no. Not those words._

"That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note."

John shook his head. He'd been through this before, with one of his army buddies when they were over in the desert. He didn't want to go through it again, not with Sherlock, who was larger than life. Sherlock was above human emotions. Or maybe that was John's mistake, assuming that.

"Leave a note when?" Maybe if he denied it, if he pretended it wasn't real, Sherlock would come down. There was a pause and no answer, and John feared the worst.

"Goodbye, John."

"Nope. Don't."

John's stomach dropped like a stone, and even from this distance he could see his best friend cast away the mobile he had been talking into. "Sherlock!" he yelled, forgetting about his own phone and letting his hand fall to his side. He took a step forward and then suddenly Sherlock was falling.

John's eyes followed him until he disappeared, and then he started forward. He needed to get to Sherlock. Nothing else in the world mattered except _getting to his best friend._ Now.

Something ran into him from the side and when he blinked he was on the ground. His vision was blurred, his hearing muffled for the moment, but it was already coming back. The next few seconds were a blur as he pushed himself to his feet and forced his way over to the crowd already gathered around the body on the ground.

_The body_. He was already disassociating. He couldn't this time. This time it was Sherlock. It wasn't just a body.

The gathered nurses tried to stop him, but he pushed his way through, already feeling a hysterical sob building in his chest. "No, he's my friend. He's my friend." He dropped to his knees, reaching out to take Sherlock's wrist, the only part of him within reach. There was so much blood on the sidewalk, so much blood coming from his head, but he was a doctor. He had to make sure. Wrapping his fingers around Sherlock's pale wrist, he felt for a pulse.

There wasn't one.

_No. No, no, no_. He tried to tighten his hold on his best friend, but the nurses were already pulling him away. John didn't have anything in him to resist, instead falling back into the hands and arms of the people around him, holding up his hand to signal that he was alright, though he was far from it.

Sherlock was lifted onto a gurney and taken away, and soon the rest of the crowd thinned out as well. It wasn't long before all that was left to remember that his best friend had jumped from the hospital's roof was his own shaking form and a small pool of Sherlock's blood.

Finally he pushed himself to his feet. He made his way numbly over to the street and raised his hand for a cab. When one pulled up he crawled in the backseat and closed the door with a dull thud.

"Are you alright?"

John raised his eyes, looking up at the dark eyes of the female cabbie in the rearview mirror. Alright? No, no he wasn't alright. But he was so numb right now that he couldn't quite form the words to either deny or confirm her question.

Her eyes hardened. "You've got blood on your hands. Are you alright?" she repeated.

John looked down at his hands. Sure enough, there was blood on his palms; he must have gotten some on there when he had pushed himself to his feet. As his eyes focused past his hands, he saw a patch of the red liquid on his knee and along his shin as well.

John swallowed thickly, forcing himself to retreat away from everything so that he could push words out of his mouth. "I'm fine," he managed. "It's not… It's not my blood. I just need to go home. 221b Baker Street." The address came from his lips before he could think better of it, and the cabbie started moving before he could correct himself.

His mind drifted as he stared out of the window. Sometimes he just saw the people walking by on the street; other times he saw a reflection of Sherlock in a shop window and he had to twist his head in a hurry to look, but there was nothing there. There was never anything there.

By the time the cab reached Baker Street, John was a strung wreck and it was taking all of his energy not to show it. Energy that was fading rather quickly. He reached for his wallet, but the cabbie just shook her head. "This one's on me. I don't know what's wrong, but you go take a hot shower and relax. And I'm sorry if something's happened."

_Yeah_, John thought, staring down at his hands for a moment, _something's happened. And sorry doesn't quite cover it._ He looked up, a smile on his face anyway, though he knew it looked forced and it felt it. "Thank you." He was proud when his voice was even. No cracking, no yelling.

He got out of the cab and managed to do so without rushing, but as soon as the cabbie drove off he ran to the door, gasping for breath because all of it was suddenly out of his lungs. Taking his key from his pocket, John reached up with a shaking hand and unlocked the door. With a twist of the doorknob he half stumbled, half fell into the entryway.

Mrs. Hudson, still standing by the stairway talking to the repairman, gasped and jumped with startled shock. "John!"

Shit. All he wanted was to be alone. Was that too much to ask?

He reached behind him and pushed the door shut, but then he just _couldn't_ any longer. His knees gave out and he fell back against the heavy wood of the door, sliding down until he hit the floor.

Mrs. Hudson hustled forward, because at her age she couldn't run, and knelt down in front of him. "John? What is it?" She had a hand on his shoulder, and part of him liked it and part of him needed it _off_ but he couldn't decide which was prominent so he left it. He heard the landlady's harsh intake of breath. "There's blood on your hands. Are you hurt?" The hand moved to his cheek and then carded through his hair. "John, dear, talk to me."

He whimpered instead. He didn't want to say it, because that would make it true. That would make it real. It wasn't real. It wasn't, it wasn't, it… "He's gone," he choked out, and he had to take a huge gasping breath after because he couldn't breathe. "He's gone, he's gone, he's _gone._" He had started crying and he drew his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms tightly around them.

"Who's gone, John?" the old lady whispered, blissfully ignorant. Maybe she thought that if she denied it long enough, that would make it untrue as well. Mustn't jump to conclusions.

Sherlock would be disappointed.

A sob ran through him, his shoulders starting to shake. Remembering there was a repairman in the room helped a bit, and John buried his face in his knees, trying to halt his tears. "Sherlock." The first time his name left John's lips, it was barely audible even to himself. After the tenth time he was practically screaming out his agony. "Sherlock's gone. He's dead. Sherlock's dead." John whispered the last statement with such finality that it slowed his tears, and he was finally able to draw a decent breath.

John lifted his head, dragging the heel of his hand across his cheeks. The small, gentle fingers hand fallen from his hair, and when he turned, John saw Mrs. Hudson on her knees beside him, her head bent and her shoulders shaking.

Guilt immediately washed through him. "Oh, Mrs. H." He lowered his knees and wrapped his arms around the frail old woman, pulling her gently into his lap. "I'm sorry."

She nodded a bit too quickly, her chin shaking as more tears slipped past her tightly squeezed eyelids. "Me too," she whispered, her voice wavering, before tucking her head down against his neck.

_What might we deduce about his heart?_

John still wasn't sure if Sherlock had been gay, straight, or somewhere in between, but he knew he had loved this old woman. Mycroft couldn't see it, and the man himself wouldn't have been caught dead admitting to it, but John knew. He knew, and he would remind her of that, just not now, not with an audience.

"Come on, Mrs. Hudson," he murmured, gently applying pressure to her sides as he slid himself back into a standing position, his legs braced in front of him and his back still against the door. "Let's get you inside."

John was thankful for two things in the next few moments, and really only two things. One, that he hadn't lost all of the muscle he had gotten from being a soldier, and two, that Mrs. Hudson was as light as a feather. Because she only lasted five small steps on her own before her legs gave out and John had to carry her inside her flat.

By the time he had shut the door with his heel and set her on her couch, her tears had stopped and she was telling him not to worry. "Really, John, I'm fine. I was just… surprised." She tried to push him away, but she was shaking so badly she could barely lift her hand to John's arm.

The doctor in John kicked in. "Nonsense," he chided. "You sit right there, and I'm going to go put the kettle on." He left her side and walked toward the kitchen, but he paused just outside of the doorway. "If you move from that spot, I will force you to sleep with me in my flat tonight."

My flat. Shit.

_Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side._

_Yeah, well, I've already lost,_ John thought before returning to his trip to the kitchen. He washed the blood—Sherlock's blood—from his hands, staring as it mixed with the soap and water and ran down the drain. He jerked back, grabbing a towel to dry off his hands.

John started the kettle boiling, walking slowly over to the fridge to fish out the milk and grabbed some cinnamon powder from the pantry on his way back.

Sherlock had always made fun of him for the cinnamon, until John had poured it in his tea one day. He hadn't commented—of course he hadn't—and he had never asked for it after that, but John noticed that cinnamon showed up more often on his shopping list from that point.

The kettle whistled, and John jumped out of his skin, nearly dropping the items in his hands. There were more tears building in his eyes but he blinked them back. _You're a doctor right now,_ he reminded himself. He set the milk and cinnamon powder on the counter, taking the kettle off and pouring the hot water over tea bags until the steaming liquid filled two large cups.

Tea didn't cure everything, but it was a start.

"Would you like milk in yours?" John called, not sure how Mrs. Hudson took her tea and wanting to make sure she drank the whole cup.

"Just make it however you make yours," was her reply.

John shrugged. Not many people didn't like the way he made his tea, and he often got compliments for it, but there was always that one person in the crowd that didn't. And that didn't bother him; he just hoped right now that it wasn't Mrs. Hudson.

So he added the milk and cinnamon, making the measurements precise because he's a military man and because if he doesn't focus he's going to break down again. Finally satisfied, John brought the cups out on saucers and handed one to Mrs. H, who hadn't moved from her spot.

She thanked him and took a sip as he sat beside her. "It's very good, dear," she complemented, patting his knee.

"It's the cinnamon." He had a feeling she would complement him even if she found it distasteful, but he thought her words were genuine.

She arched a brow at the disclosure of John's secret ingredient and he couldn't help his small smile.

"Yeah, crazy, right? Works great on hangovers too, if you put enough in. Sherlock—" his voice hitched and he looked down at his lap for a moment. _Doctor_, he reminded himself, and that helped. He looked back up and met his landlady's kind eyes. "He liked it in his tea, too. Wouldn't take it until I slipped it in there secretly but wouldn't stop taking it after."

She laughed lightly, squeezing John's fingers. "That sounds an awful lot like him. Stubborn clot."

John smiled, though he felt like curling up in a ball and rocking himself to sleep. "He was, wasn't he? Never knew what he was going to do, and once he had his mind made up, that was it." John blinked at the older woman, who was looking off towards the kitchen, her eyes unfocused, a smile on her face. "He loved you, you know."

Her smile broadened and she turned her face back towards him. "I know. Who doesn't love me though?" John laughed with her this time, both because it was expected and because it felt good. "But he loved you, too."

John's smile slipped away, because this wasn't what he wanted to hear. He didn't want to know this. Not now that it was too late to matter.

_John, you should know that I consider myself married to my work, and though I'm flattered by your offer, I'm really not looking—_

Though John had cut him off, he had been dying to know what the end of that sentence was. Not looking for anything. Not looking for anything right now. Not looking for anything long-term. Not looking at anyone except you.

That last hadn't fit into the context of their conversation, but it had haunted John for over a year. Because Sherlock had been right, like always, right from the start.

John had fallen for Sherlock, and he had never said a word to anyone, even putting up the guises of having girlfriends—though with the rate at which they came and went, someone should have suspected something.

"Dear, are you alright?"

John blinked, and he wasn't in Angelo's sitting next to a tall, lanky consulting detective with eyes that pierced him like a winter wind, but instead in Mrs. Hudson's cozy flat, cradling a half-empty cup of tea to his chest.

He knew he couldn't get away with a lie to Mrs. H, who knew him better after eighteen months than anyone except Sherlock. "Yeah, I'm alright. At least I will be once I finish my tea." The lie felt better on his lips than the truth would have, so he told it. He knew the landlady saw right through it, though maybe not to the reasons behind it, and she didn't press.

They finished their tea in silence, and John felt horrible about it. He was supposed to have cheered her up, made her feel better, and when she tried to do the same, he had dragged her along in his downward spiral.

John set his cup and saucer down on the little table next to the couch and leaned over to place a quick kiss on Mrs. Hudson's forehead. "Thank you for the tea," he whispered, squeezing her hands in his as he stood from the couch. "Call if you need anything."

She gave him a smile, and when her lips quivered and her eyes focused on something just past his head, he knew she was remembering Sherlock. Something _he_ had said or done had reminded her of Sherlock, and that was more than he could take.

He needed out.

He squeezed her fingers one last time before walking out of the door. Thank God the repairman was gone, because a choked sob immediately forced its way out of John's throat.

He stopped on his way to the stairs, having to catch himself on the banister when he tripped because he couldn't see through his tears.

_That was the most ridiculous thing I've ever done._

_And you invaded Afghanistan._

"Oh, God. Sherlock." The words came out as a hoarse whisper, torn from his lips by some unseen force. He sank to the first step, dropping his head in his hands and letting himself spend all of his tears, because there was no way in hell he was going to make it up to the flat right now.

Unwanted memories somehow wormed their way into his thoughts, and suddenly he was back on the bank of that river, holding the stupid laptop because Sherlock was too lazy to come down and see the scene himself.

John cracked a smile and cried harder, two contradicting things that just made his stomach hurt, so a different memory came up.

He and Sherlock were in the museum, talking to Soo Lin, begging for her help, and then all of a sudden Sherlock was gone, and there were gunshots and John heard shouting. He told her to stay, but he needed to make sure Sherlock was safe, needed it like he needed to breathe, and so he left.

When they got home that night, and John was pissed, picking things up just to throw them back down again, Sherlock cornered him against a wall and put both of his hands on John's shoulders. "It's not your fault," was all he had said, and he wouldn't hear a word otherwise. He hadn't let John leave until he had consented to the fact, something he had drawn out because he liked Sherlock's hands on his shoulders.

John was back in 221b again, and he had somehow managed to stop crying. Now he was just numb.

He needed a drink.

The only thing that got him to his feet and up the seemingly endless flight of stairs was the promise of alcohol at the top. Tea didn't cure everything, and what it missed, alcohol took care of.

John pushed open the door that led to the parlor and slowly closed it behind him. He walked into the kitchen and closed that door as well. John may have offered Mrs. Hudson a helping hand if she needed it tonight, but he knew she would stay downstairs. He knew she wouldn't call. He knew, because she knew.

He grabbed the first bottle he saw, not caring what it was. He just needed to feel the sting as it slid down his throat and the burn in his chest as it settled in his stomach. At least he had the decency to pour it in a glass first.

The first gulp was too much and not enough at the same time. It took two swallows to get it down, and John felt like there were fumes escaping his mouth when the liquid was finally gone from it. He tipped back another swallow, the doctor in him telling him to take it easy or it would all catch up with him later without the effect he wanted.

Good. Let it.

_That… thing that you, um, that you offered to do… That was, um… good._

"Leave me alone!" John screamed in agony, throwing the mostly empty glass across the parlor until it smashed against the wall. There was that damned spray painted smiley, outlined in bullet holes like some reverse connect the dots game.

_The wall had it coming_.

John sank down onto the arm of his chair, lifting the bottle to his lips. "Get out of my head, Sherlock," he whispered, his voice shaking. "Please," he begged, taking another swallow. "Please, just leave me alone."

_Come_ on_, John._

John's hands were shaking, so he set the glass bottle on the floor before it slipped from his fingers. Wrapping his arms around his waist, he stared at the floor, hoping it was the one thing in the flat that wouldn't remind him of his dead friend, his missed chance at something more. But soon he found himself envisioning the impatient sweep of Sherlock's feet across the floor as he thought through a case or waited for John.

"_It doesn't take that long to change a shirt. Why are you bothering anyway?"_

"_I'm going on a date with Sarah, Sherlock. I'd like to not have tea spilled down the front of my shirt."_

_John trotted down the stairs to see Sherlock pacing along the currently open sliding doors of the kitchen. He looked up when John stopped at the base of the stairs and held up his arms in an is-this-okay look._

_Sherlock shrugged, swinging his coat on. "What you wear makes no difference to me."_

_John glanced up at Sherlock's obvious pause, not sure if he should say something, or what he could really say to that anyway._

"_I'm not your date, John," Sherlock seemed to finish his thought with the pop of his collar and John forgot about the conversation for the rest of the night._

Sobs were ripping through John, because he couldn't remember if the resentment in Sherlock's voice had actually been there or if that was something his mind had conjured up just now. He was starting to forget their conversations.

And he didn't have the opportunity to make any more.

Nausea rolled over John in waves, and he was sober enough to recognize that these weren't little warnings. He pushed away from his chair and ran for the bathroom, dropping to his knees in front of the toilet and throwing up inside of it. The alcohol burned just as much on the way back up, and mixed with the cinnamon from his tea, it wasn't nearly as pleasant.

He reached for a towel without looking and wiped off his mouth when he was done, flushing the toilet with the last of his strength. His legs were flung out to his side, and one arm was supporting him, but that was about to go as well. He was cold and hot and sad and angry and just _done_.

So John lowered himself to the floor, his cheek pressing against the cool tile. At least there were no memories in here, nothing for John to look at and think, _Sherlock_. And he was so tired all he could do was close his eyes and fall asleep anyway.

There were a lot more people attending Sherlock's funeral than he thought there would be. Lestrade, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, and Mycroft, of course, but there were so many others. People John didn't know or care to know. He met Sherlock's mother and he finally figured out where Sherlock got his stubbornness from.

To John's—and really everyone's—surprise, a fair crowd of homeless showed up as well. They hung together in the background, but they attended, and that made John feel both extremely sad and touched at the same time.

Sherlock would sneer at him or make some snarky comment.

He hadn't heard Sherlock's voice since he went to go talk to his therapist two days ago, late in the afternoon after all of the cinnamon in his tea had taken care of the slight hangover he had suffered, mostly in his stomach ache. The day had been raining, and he couldn't have been happier nor more indifferent about it.

He didn't like how his emotions were working now. Before Sherlock, he had been an army doctor with some sarcasm and gratitude and honor and all the usual. With Sherlock, he had been overwhelmed with how much he had tried to balance out the fact that Sherlock didn't express his emotions very often. There had been nights when he had collapsed on his mattress, exhausted just from laughing too much, or saying too many witty things, or being too sensitive so that Sherlock would understand what it meant to _be_ sensitive.

Now… he didn't even know. He was surprised he could tell up from down.

He hadn't eaten anything in the past three days. He knew by now Sherlock would have nonchalantly mentioned going out to dinner, or grabbing a bite at Speedy's, or asked if they were running low on eggs. Because he knew that John only ate when he was at least marginally happy, and he was always checking to see if John would eat.

John was so far from happy that the thought of food should send him running to the bathroom.

He was supposed to get up in front of everyone and say something, and he tried, but all he managed to say was that Sherlock was the biggest dick he had ever met, but in the eighteen months that John had known him, he had gone from a snarky consulting detective to a good man who solved cases to help the people they were about. And it took all of his will power to hold off tears he shouldn't have been able to produce as he was talking.

Mrs. Hudson had suggested they have someone play a piece Sherlock had composed, but John had outright said no, the thought of someone missing a stroke or getting the pace wrong making him sick to his stomach. So they didn't play any music. They finished the service and everyone left, Lestrade and Molly the last to linger.

Pretty soon they were gone too, and it was just John and Mrs. Hudson.

And then it was just John.

He couldn't stop standing with his back rigid, his arms straight at his side. He didn't know how else to pay respect to a fallen friend.

"Um…" John knew he was alone, that he could say whatever he wanted, that he needed to say _something_ to just get this huge mountain off of his chest, but he suddenly didn't have words. "You… you told me once," he cleared his throat, trying to stave off the tears yet again, "that you weren't a hero. Um, there were times I didn't even think you were human, but, let me tell you this: you were… the best man, and the most human… human being… that I've ever known and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie and so, there."

He couldn't do it anymore. His heart was shattering, his soul was gone, and he was falling apart around himself. He had just enough sense to realize that he had just given a better speech to a dead man than he had to the crowd that had attended his funeral. Sherlock wouldn't even have appreciated the words had he been alive.

_Sentiment?_

_Sentiment. Good._

John shook his head to clear it, glancing over his shoulder to see how far away Mrs. Hudson had gone. He stepped forward onto the fresh dirt, instantly wishing he hadn't but continuing to do it anyway as he touched his hand to the black headstone.

At least there was one thing Sherlock would approve of. Black, with just his name.

_You did well, John. Really well._

_Except it's under a pine tree. Really John, a pine tree? You didn't think this one through at all, did you? The pine cones will fall in the spring, the dead needles in the fall. The air is going to smell like sap. I don't need any more sap in my life, John, that's what you're for._

He could hear it now.

At least John had gone two days without hearing Sherlock's voice.

"I was so alone," he said, his head lowered as if Sherlock could actually hear him, "and I owe you so much." He turned, having it in his head to walk away when there were suddenly more words on his tongue. "But please, there's just one more thing—one more thing—one more miracle, Sherlock, for me." Saying his name was hard, but he was on a roll now, he had to get this out because it needed to be said. "Don't. Be. Dead. Would you do th—" his voice cut off and he had to stop and start over. "Just for me. Just stop it, stop this."

John let out a long breath and dropped his chin to his chest, finally letting himself cry for the first time in three days. He wanted to fall to his knees, to curl up on the ground in front of the headstone and to not leave until someone dragged him away. But if Mrs. Hudson could walk away, then so could he.

He took a deep breath, wiping away his tears with the heel of his hand and drawing himself back up to his full height. Staring at a spot over Sherlock's grave, he nodded, turned ninety degrees on his heel, and then walked away to meet up with Mrs. Hudson.

John didn't even know a week had passed until there was a knock on his door that turned out to be Mrs. Hudson wearing a too-cheerful smile and carrying a tray with tea and biscuits. John knew something was wrong right away, but he wasn't sure what.

He hadn't returned to the flat after Sherlock's funeral. All of the consulting detective's science equipment was being taken out to be donated to schools, and John couldn't bear the thought of watching it go. He knew he would be yelling to have it put back.

So he had gone to stay at Sarah's. She alone of all his former girlfriends had remained his friend, and she had welcomed him into her flat with open arms and a kind smile. She talked to him all night and the whole rest of the day after, and her gentle voice soothed away any whispers that remained of Sherlock's whiskey baritone.

_It really bothers you._

_Yes._

_About me. I don't understand; why would it upset you?_

The results hadn't been permanent.

_Oh, come on, John. You don't mind that much._

He was even starting to imagine how he would answer him, instead of just remembering bits and pieces of their conversations. Or maybe he wasn't. It killed him to think that he couldn't recall everything Sherlock Holmes had ever said to him.

A series of small clinking noises brought him back to the flat, where Mrs. Hudson was busying herself pouring them both cups of tea. She was chattering about something, halfway through what seemed to be a very long sentence that John hadn't caught. He sighed lightly, not bothering to try and pick up on what she was talking about. When the landlady got into one of her talking frenzies, she didn't need any encouragement.

John stared at the tea instead. He had consumed nothing but tea for the past days, unable to bring himself to eat but knowing he had to put something in him. He had somehow been able to convince himself that tea was enough.

The doctor in John wanted to laugh sardonically at that. He had lost eleven pounds, and he was so malnourished that his hands shook when he lifted them and walking to the bathroom was progressively becoming a challenge. He was slowly killing himself, and he knew it, and he was doing nothing to stop it.

"Have you read anything in the papers lately?"

John looked up, realizing that that was the third time Mrs. Hudson had asked that, and she still managed to make it sound like it was the first.

Papers? No, he stayed as far away from the papers as possible. He could only imagine all of the stories that had been written and that were still being written about Sherlock, all of the people claiming to have been great friends with him.

_I don't have friends._

Exactly.

_I've just got one._

Shit. John rubbed his eyes before looking up at Mrs. Hudson and shaking his head. "No, I haven't. Haven't been able to bring myself to." To read all the lies, the schemes, the falsities told by people who just wanted money in their pockets. No one knew Sherlock well enough to be telling stories about him except Sherlock himself. John didn't even think of himself as qualified, and he wrote a blog about their cases.

His blog. Yeah, he hadn't updated that yet either. And he had no intentions of doing so.

The small old lady sitting in front of him took a sip from her cup, and when she put it back on the saucer, there was a sad smile on her lips.

Right, the tea. John had forgotten. He brought his cup to his lips and took a long drink, not even caring that it was plain.

_As always, you see but do not observe._

It took a lot of effort for John not to cringe in pain.

"There have been a few nice ones," Mrs. Hudson admitted, taking another sip, "but most of them have been untrue and downright horrible. The things people do to make money," she voiced John's thoughts exactly. "Saying Sherlock was a 'kindly soul.'" She snorted, a noise that he had never heard her make, and it shocked him into a more alert state. "Sherlock Holmes, a kind soul? He was the biggest clot I knew."

If John could remember how to laugh, he would have done it then. As it was, all he could do was offer up a wan smile.

Mrs. Hudson started talking about something else, branching off to different topics that John lost interest in and didn't try to keep track of. And she didn't need him to. He stared down at the last few swallows of his tea while she talked, blanking out and thinking of why she had come up here. What could have been so bad that she had brought him tea and biscuits?

Something in the papers. Something he would have to look up when she left.

Eager to see what it was, and knowing that it was something pretty bad, he drained the remainder of his tea in one long swallow, placing his cup and saucer on the tray.

_And I said dangerous, and here you are._

"Would you like some more, dear?" Mrs. Hudson asked, already reaching for the kettle.

John shook his head. "No. Thank you though, Mrs. H, really. It was good. I appreciated the company." That was as gentle and as kind of a dismissal as he could manage to make.

Thankfully, she caught on. "Alright. You're welcome." She stood and gave him a hug, her arms lingering around his shoulders a bit longer than he had been anticipating. "It's been a week, John," she told him when she had leaned away, wiping her cheek with her fingers. "Come visit an old lady once in a while."

John immediately felt guilty, and he reached forward and took Mrs. Hudson's hands in his own. "I'm sorry, Mrs. H. I'll come see you soon. I promise." He pulled her into another quick hug before handing her the tea tray and watching her leave.

As soon as she was gone, he was making his way to the desk. Upon starting up his computer, he pulled up the webpage for the press and checked the day's headlines. The front page story had him leaning back in his seat, the air gone from his lungs.

_**Best Friends with Death: James Moriarty is Alive**_

"Shit," John breathed out. It hadn't surprised him, the day after Sherlock's death, to hear that Moriarty had died on the rooftop as well. But now there was this headline, accompanied by a picture, saying that he was _alive_.

No, no. John couldn't do this, not right now. He slammed his laptop shut and ran upstairs to get dressed with the intention of going down to Scotland Yard. This wasn't something he wanted to discuss over the phone; he wanted to see how Lestrade reacted to this.

_John, just calm down_.

"You don't get to tell me what to do," he snarled, throwing on a jumper before making his way back downstairs. So focused was he, that he didn't hear the extra set of footsteps coming up the staircase as he made his way to the parlor and crossed to the door there. John didn't bother with his jacket, throwing open the door.

His mind didn't quite register that there was the silencer to a gun pressed against his stomach until it went off. Twice.

His knees started giving out and his hand grasped for something on the wall, anything to hold on to. With blurry vision he watched the man walk away, slipping the gun back into his jacket.

John collapsed to the ground, a slow groan escaping his lips. He pressed his hand to one of the wounds, trying to stop the blood pouring out of it. It wasn't working; the liquid was still seeping through his fingers.

Spleen, maybe? Near it, at least.

His shoulders sagged back against the wall. He didn't have his mobile on him. He couldn't call anyone for help. Well, almost anyone.

Praying she wasn't watching telly, John drew in a deep breath and yelled. "Mrs. Hudson!" He coughed, and his chest rattled. The doctor in him said internal bleeding, the soldier in him said ignore it. "Mrs. Hudson!" he called again, louder, near screaming.

There was a crash and a loud thump from below him, and he sighed in relief, letting his head fall back against the wall.

That was when he remembered the second gunshot.

He brought up his other hand, frightened that he couldn't feel pain where the bullet had gone in. No pain meant something bad. Something very bad.

"Jesus, no," John whispered, his voice hitched as his hand found the wound and pressed against it. That was his liver.

He needed a hospital, and he needed to get there _now_.

He was about to holler for Mrs. Hudson one last time, knowing he wouldn't have the breath left for another yell, when he heard footsteps on the stairs. _Thank God_.

He saw her tuft of yellow hair first, but his vision was getting too foggy to make out the question he knew would be in her eyes, or the panic it would turn to when she saw him bleeding out against the wall.

"John?" She was suddenly by his side, her hands cupping his face, trying to get him to look at her. "Sherlock!" She yelled over her shoulder. Or at least he thought she had. Surely she couldn't have; he must have imagined it.

"Mrs. Hudson," John reached up to grab her wrist, but when he saw all of the blood on his palm and fingers he stopped. He remembered sitting much like this with her a little over a week ago, only they had been downstairs, and it had been Sherlock's blood on his hands and not his own.

"Mrs. Hudson? John?" Sherlock's voice. Now he really was hallucinating, because that hadn't just been in his head.

John ignored it, keeping his eyes on the landlady. His injuries were worse than he thought if he was hallucinating. "Mrs. Hudson," he tried again, "call—"

He couldn't remember who she needed to call, because his eyes snagged on the dark hair of a tall, slim figure bounding up the stairs. What was left of his breath caught in his throat as those clear eyes met him, chilling him and warming him all at once. Or maybe that was just the pain getting to him.

John blinked, and he was there, right in front of him, his spindly, violinist's fingers replacing Mrs. Hudson's. "John? John, can you hear me? Mrs. Hudson, call an ambulance."

An ambulance. That's what he had been trying to say earlier.

"John." That whispering voice was back, and John closed his eyes, not wanting to believe that Sherlock was there and yet needing to. But needing was too painful. "John, you have to look at me."

"No," he choked out, hating himself as a tear slipped from his eyelids. "You're dead. We buried you. _I buried you._"

John thought he heard a sound of pain, but Sherlock didn't make sounds like that. He just didn't. "No, John. You didn't bury me. You buried a body, but it wasn't me. I thought I was protecting you in leaving but I was…" John opened his eyes, because this time the choked sound of _wounded_ was undeniable. "I was wrong, and I'm sorry."

Sherlock blinked and seemed to collect himself. His hands slipped down to cover the backs of John's, and his piercing gaze followed them. With a care that John had thought the man reserved only for Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock drew one of John's hands away from the bullet hole, only to immediately cover it back up. He didn't bother to hide the cringe nor the shock that fleeted across his face.

John wished he would have, just this once.

"Keep pressure on these," Sherlock murmured, and John expected him to draw away. There was blood getting on his hands, after all. To John's relief, Sherlock's hands continued to cover his, helping him to keep a steady pressure on the holes in his abdomen.

John's shoulders sagged, his breathing slowed. There were black shadows creeping along the edges of his vision. _What? What the hell?_

_Shock, idiot. You're going to pass out_.

Sherlock must have realized it at the same time John did, because he took a hand away from his wound and lightly tapped his cheek. "John. Stay awake. Don't you dare pass o—"

John didn't get to hear the rest of the sentence before there was a rushing in his ears and the darkness claimed him.

There was a moment of consciousness that John had before they reached the hospital, but only just a moment. He was in an ambulance, he recognized that right away. And pain. Oh, dear God. Didn't these people know what painkillers were?

He was wearing an oxygen mask, which was irritating and itchy and inhibiting his eyesight and Jesus he sounded like Sherlock right now.

Whatever. He wanted it _off._

But when he reached up to do so—why the hell weren't his arms strapped in?—a hand settled over his, long fingers pulling his red-covered hand back down. His eyes followed the movement, settling on the dark man sitting beside him. Was that Sherlock? John couldn't remember, and then all of a sudden he was hit with what had happened and he let out a sharp gasp, his fingers tightening around Sherlock's.

_Sherlock…_

Sherlock was alive. He was alive. Alive, alive, _alive_.

The words followed him like a prayer as one of the paramedics forced him under with anesthesia.

_I don't remember changing my alarm_, was the thought that brought him out of sleep. He became aware of the room gradually. Sound first, and there was a cacophony of that: beeps, buzzes, hums, hushed whispers and murmurs, and louder discussions that John didn't care to make sense of. Smell came second—it was too clean, a sickly clean. Hospital clean.

Oh. Right.

He was getting his feeling back, and so far it wasn't appealing. There was a pressure around his abdomen, tight enough that it was a bit of a challenge to breath. _Bandage_, he thought, and he figured that was a pretty accurate assumption. He couldn't feel the wounds underneath, though, which was a step in the right direction.

There was a light touch on his hand, a brush of what felt like fingers.

John ran through his mind who could be sitting beside him. Harry? No, doubtful. Mrs. Hudson, but these fingers weren't wrinkled.

His hand was being lifted, held gently between two delicate hands. He felt something wet touch his knuckles. Tears?

He forced his eyes open, blinking so that they adjusted to the bright white of the hospital room quickly. He focused on his hand first, though he couldn't actually see his own hand between the other two that were holding it, pressing it against a warm and wet cheek.

John couldn't have missed those desperate eyes if he had wanted to.

Desperate. That certainly wasn't a word he thought of when he was thinking about Sherlock.

"Sherlock?" John shifted minutely onto his side so that he could see the other man better. "Are… are you alright?"

Sherlock drew in a long, shaky breath. "John…"

John tried to sit up, but found the effort to be too physically draining. Not long ago he would have gritted his teeth and forced himself to do it, even if he passed out in the process. But he wasn't a soldier any longer. He was the best friend of a consulting detective. The only friend to the loneliest man he knew.

He brushed his thumb across the inside of Sherlock's fingers, being that it was the only thing he could reach without pulling away. John didn't care how intimate the gestures passing between them were, didn't care that there were tears now sliding down to his wrist.

Sherlock shifted his hold on John's hand to only one of his own, pressing a kiss to John's knuckles that would have made his stomach flutter if he weren't so concerned.

"Why are you crying?" he asked quietly, not wanting it to be something truly bad.

"Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side. And John, I'm losing."

Losing? Losing what? John was so utterly confused. "Sherlock, please. What's the matter?" But all his friend could do was gesture to the wheeled table beside him and lean forward, crossing his arms over John's legs and burying his face in the crook of his elbows. John's eyes glanced in the direction Sherlock had pointed for only a brief second before his attention became focused on the overly distraught man in front of him.

What was wrong, John couldn't begin to guess, but he had never seen Sherlock this way. Sherlock didn't feel, not like this.

Tentatively, John reached forward, rubbing his hand in soothing circles over Sherlock's shoulder. All he got in response was a sob torn from his friend's throat. "Sherlock…" He squeezed the man's shoulder, trying to elicit a response from him.

Finally, Sherlock lifted his head. His tears were dry but his eyes were still red and shiny. Wordlessly, he reached over to the table and grabbed a clipboard from it, holding it up to John.

"My charts?" John asked, his stomach sinking like a stone as he took the papers from his friend. His eyes skimmed the mix of typeset and doctor's scribbles, his gut clenching tighter and tighter until he knew he either had to stop reading or risk being sick.

He was quiet for a moment, the machine on his right letting the world know—if any of it besides Sherlock was listening—that his heart was racing ahead at a thousand miles per hour. Desperate.

"And there's nothing…" he ducked his head, swallowing. "There's absolutely nothing to be done?"

Sherlock inhaled deeply through barely parted cupid's bow lips, slowly shaking his head.

John nodded briskly. He was a doctor, he would deal with this like one.

His liver was failing him. There wasn't a replacement in the hospital, and they couldn't ship one in from anywhere quickly enough for it to do any good. His system was going to shut down, slowly, and he was going to die.

"How far along is it?" The charts were old, by medical standards. At least for something like this. A few hours made a world of a difference when you only had twenty-four of them left.

"Eight." Sherlock's voice was small, trembling. "I tried to get them to wake you up, but they wouldn't listen to me, they just wouldn't—" He pushed away from his chair, pacing away towards the door.

"Sherlock," John called out, not wanting to be alone. Not wanting him to leave.

In a sudden burst of graceful movement that only Sherlock could pull off, he had spun to his left towards the wall, throwing his fist into the plaster.

"Sherlock!" John pushed himself up onto his elbows, hoping the movement would make his friend focus on something else. "Sherlock stop!"

With what looked like an immense amount of effort, Sherlock pressed his palm to the wall, leaning his forehead against it. John could see that he was panting, his body trembling.

"What was that, now?" John asked, trying for offhand and succeeding beautifully.

"I'm angry, John." The _obviously_ didn't have to be said.

"So you take it out on the wall?"

John caught Sherlock's smirk, even from that distance. "The wall had it coming," he replied, his voice back to carrying the snarky tone John was used to as he returned to his seat.

"Sherlock…"

His friend looked up at him. "Yes, John?"

John bit his lip. Did he really want to know? Yeah, yeah he did. "Why did you leave?"

There was a long moment of silence broken only by Sherlock's heavy sigh. "I was… given an ultimatum by Moriarty. Sacrifice myself or watch my friends killed."

"You could have come back." John's voice was the barest of whispers.

"I thought you were better with me gone. And Moriarty's men were still out there; I felt the need to track them down and get rid of them. I thought I was protecting you. The man who shot you…" Sherlock's jaw clenched. "I had been following him for a few days, waiting to make a move. I'm sorry I made it too late, John."

John shook his head. "Stop it. Stop apologizing. I have sixteen hours left to live, give or take. I don't want to listen to you saying sorry for all of them."

A switch seemed to have flipped in Sherlock, and he looked John over for a moment, his eyes narrowing in thought. "Want to leave?"

That was not what John had been expecting. "Come again?"

"Come _on_, John. Let's go catch a cab, see the city, go out to Angelo's for dinner. You're supposed to be the spontaneous one, remember?"

John knew what Sherlock was doing, he could see right through the pretenses he was throwing around. He was giving him the opportunity to see the city one last time, to eat dinner with his best friend and the last person he'll ever love one last time. Giving him the option of not dying in a hospital.

He smiled at the light that had come back into Sherlock's eyes—the light that said _purpose_. John couldn't deny him that, and he didn't want to. He would be selfish. He would spend all of his last moments with a man he had only known for eighteen months. A man who knew him like he never thought he could be known.

"I don't recall ever being as spontaneous as you. Never once. As I recall, the agreement I signed said I was the reasonable one," he teased, reaching out for Sherlock's wrist. He needed contact. Previously in his life, touching had been bonus, never forefront. Now it was necessary, and only Sherlock would do. "Being such, I feel the need to point out that I have no clothes, I'm going to need a cane to walk, and they're not just going to let you _walk me out of here_."

A devilish grin spread across Sherlock's lips. He leaned down, grabbing something by his feet. There was a rustle of plastic and when he leaned back up, there was a bag of clothes sitting on his lap and John's old cane was leaning against the arm of his chair.

"You were planning this from the get-go? Did you know I was going to die?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Of course not. I called Mrs. Hudson when you were diagnosed, and she brought them over. I figured you wouldn't want to stay here." He set the bag on John's lap, standing up and walking over to the door. There was no underlying tremor in his shoulders this time, no tension in his arms or hesitance in his step. He was on a mission, and he was going to see it through to the end, every minor detail to perfection.

Nothing had ever relaxed John more than that knowledge.

Sherlock closed the door to their room, turning back on his heel and nearly jogging over to John. His hands swept over the monitors John was hooked up to, and all John could do was stare. "When did you get so knowledgeable about all of this?" he asked. He didn't even know what to call half of the modern equipment in the room, let alone how to manage it.

"While you were asleep."

John gaped, but said nothing else. It wasn't as if he were really surprised, after all.

He watched as Sherlock made quick work of shutting off the monitors so that no alarms would sound. When Sherlock turned to John, he held his arms up obediently, letting Sherlock's carefully graceful hands take out his I.V. and all of the other needles and wires that were attached to him.

Sherlock clasped John's hands when the medical instruments were clear, pulling him into a sitting position.

John groaned, pressing a hand to his right side. Trailing beneath the bandage that John had his palm held against, he could feel the unmistakable rise of stitches. An incision. "They tried to operate on me?" he asked, lifting his eyes in an attempt to find Sherlock's.

But his winter blue's were lowered. "Just to take out the bullet. When they cut you open… that's when they saw how far along it was. They said that there was no point."

That's what he had figured. "Just asking." He swung his legs over the side of the bed, reaching into the bag for his pants. Thank God and anyone else that he could dress himself, because _that_ would have been really embarrassing.

As soon as he had pulled his trousers on as well, John untied the hospital gown and shucked it off, setting it behind him on the bed. He pulled out two different undershirts and two different jumpers. Obviously not interchangeable. A blue plaid undershirt and a white one with thin blue and red lines making small squares on it. And a white jumper and a black. John raised an eyebrow at Sherlock.

He shrugged. "Thought I'd let you choose. You're not as particular as I am, _but_…"

John looked back at the clothes he held. The blue plaid shirt and white jumper was his favorite. It was comfortable and he thought it described his personality pretty well for an outfit. It was also the outfit he had worn the first day he had spent with Sherlock. So did that mean the white shirt and black jumper was Sherlock's favorite? On the off chance that it was, that was the one he settled with.

He was rewarded with a slight gleam in Sherlock's eyes. Always a pacifist, he was.

Taking his cane in hand, he lowered himself to the floor. "I'm ready."

"Are you sure?" Sherlock asked, and despite the situation he looked like Christmas had come early. "Could be dangerous."

John scoffed. "Oh, just go, you big nut." John pushed at his shoulder. "Before we get caught."

Five hours later, he and Sherlock made their last stop on their tour of the city. 221b Baker Street. Sherlock had been skeptical, but John had insisted—where else were they supposed to go? Answerless, Sherlock had told the cabbie to take them home.

Home. The word felt good to toss around in his mind. He was coming home.

Sherlock paid the fare, as he had been doing all day, and then exited the cab, holding out his hand for John. Somewhere in the hours that they had been walking and looking, John had taken to wrapping his free hand around Sherlock's arm, just below his elbow. Sherlock hadn't said a word, simply setting his hand over John's and continuing on, pointing out things that he thought might interest the fading soldier.

Fading.

Dying. He was dying. In a little less than eleven hours, he would be gone from this world.

Eleven hours, though. He could work with that.

John took the hand Sherlock was holding out to him, using it to help him get out of the vehicle. He was tired, physically worn. His sides had started bleeding through the bandages sixty-eight minutes ago. Sherlock had noticed. John had told him to carry on as if he hadn't. For once in his life, the man had listened.

John let out a sigh as they paused at the door, Sherlock taking out his key to unlock it. "Are you sure you don't want to say goodbye to Mrs. Hudson?"

_I don't even want to say goodbye to you._ "I'm sure. I don't want to have her go through that."

Sherlock nodded and unlocked the door, stepping in and holding it for John as he helping guide him inside with his hand.

John grinned over at Sherlock as they neared the stairs. "That was really the most ridiculous thing I've ever done."

"And you invaded Afghanistan, and lived with me for a year and a half. _And_ I said dangerous, and here you are." Sherlock held his arm out to John, who took it without question. He wouldn't make it up the stairs without help, and he knew it.

When they reached the parlor, John left Sherlock to hang up his coat by the door, making his way over to the desk. He eased down into the chair, opening his computer and listening to the soft hum it made as it woke up.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked softly, walking up behind him.

"Updating my blog. I figure I better let everyone know how our last adventure went." His breath hitched on the word _last_, but he kept going like it hadn't happened. Sherlock dropped a hand to his shoulder and turned away, taking a seat in his steal grey chair.

A few minutes into his typing, John paused, looking up from his screen to stare at the wall in front of him. "Sherlock?"

"Hm?"

"The first day we met… well, no, it was the second day, actually, when we were at Angelo's. Do you remember our conversation?"

There was a pause, one John thought wasn't going to be filled. "I remember all of our conversations, John."

John closed his eyes, a weight of emotion settling on his chest. "When you said you were married to your work, do you remember your exact words?"

"John, you should know that I consider myself married to my work, and though I'm flattered by your offer, I'm really not looking—"

"Yes, alright. Show off." John's pulse had elevated rapidly. He had stopped Sherlock again, because underneath everything, he was a coward. _You're dying_.

To hell with it. "How were you going to end it?"

"Are you going to stop me again?"

John's smile was soft. "Maybe you should just pick up where you left off."

"—for anything more than a friend, but I can see that I've already made one in you."

John's smile stayed on his face as he went back to typing. That was good enough. There was no declaration of love, but deep down he hadn't really expected there to be. This was Sherlock Holmes he was talking about.

"That isn't," his friend's voice rose again, "how I would choose to end it now, however."

John froze, staring at his hands as they hovered over the keys. His heart was beating loud in his throat, and he had to swallow it down before he could speak. "And how would you end it now?"

"—at the soldier you are projecting right now, nor the doctor you were when we were hovering over the Pink Lady's body. I'm looking at all of you, and I have never seen anyone more clearly than I do you in my entire life. All I can hope is that I don't make a mess of it."

John couldn't swallow past the lump in his throat, couldn't see past the tears brimming in his eyes. He looked to the side and suddenly Sherlock was kneeling beside him, pain written all across his features.

"I've messed up everything," he breathed, and the agony in his voice broke John.

He was undone, sobs ripping from his chest. He shook his head, reaching forward blindly until he pulled Sherlock to his chest. John ran a hand through the mop of dark curls, the way he had wanted to since the day they had met, though yet not quite the same way. He held tightly to Sherlock's shoulders with his other hand and arm, his face buried in the crook of Sherlock's neck.

Somehow he ended up on his knees in front of Sherlock, and they held each other as they cried.

There was so much that John wished for—more time, telling Sherlock sooner, staying with him the day he had gone after Moriarty—that he just _stopped_. And that included crying. He pulled back slowly, drying Sherlock's tears with his thumbs and his own with the backs of his hands.

"I should finish writing." What he really meant was _I should stop wasting time_.

Sherlock nodded, but he wouldn't let John leave him. So John pulled his laptop down from the desk and typed on the floor, his back pressed against Sherlock's chest with the detective reading over his shoulder, his arms wrapped loosely around John's waist.

Three hours had passed before he had even thought to blink.

"Shit," he swore, panic rising in his chest like an ugly monster.

"John, calm down. Eight hours. How about we go eat, alright?" Sherlock knew what was bothering him immediately, and of course he had a solution.

John nodded, breathing deeply through his nose. "Alright. Alright." He used the corner of the desk to pull himself to his feet, turning around to watch Sherlock stand gracefully on his own.

Sherlock helped John down the stairs. John didn't even bother to bring his cane on this trip; he didn't need it if Sherlock was helping him.

It was a five minute walk to Angelo's, and John thought it said something about his current state if Sherlock immediately stood by the curb and hailed a cab. Was he really that bad off? The doctor said yes, the soldier said piss off.

The cab ride was short-lived, and they took the same table they had sat in the first time they had come here. This time it actually felt like a date, though.

"What can I get you boys?" Angelo asked, walking up to the table to pick up the menus.

John ordered his favorite dish, knowing it would be the first time he had eaten in over a week and the last thing he would ever eat. Sherlock even ordered a small platter, and that, John thought, in itself was a small miracle.

"Angelo seems happy. Well, more-so than usual, even. Wonder what's gotten into him," John mused, folding his hands on the table and looking over at Sherlock.

Sherlock smiled. "Oh, John. As always you see but do not observe. His ring. Recently married."

John looked over to where Angelo was standing, talking to another customer. "Good for him."

They took their time eating. John wanted to finish his dish, and he couldn't force so much rich food in him quickly or he would definitely get sick. Besides, he realized he actually didn't have anything he _needed_ to do. He was just frightened of how little time there was left. But Sherlock was with him, and that's what mattered.

A little over two hours had been erased before they got back to the flat. Six hours left, and John was done. He took off his shoes by the door, hanging his coat up so that it was underneath Sherlock's. Then, with his hand on Sherlock's arm, he mounted the stairs to his room.

His bed wasn't quite as soft as he remembered. Already fantasizing about things. Well, that's not entirely good. Still, he laid back on it, folding his hands on his chest and looking up at the ceiling. He had never really looked at the ceiling before. There was a crack running from the corner about five feet in towards the center. He should tell Sherlock to get that fixed.

"What do you want to do?" Sherlock asked, taking a seat by his knees.

This was it. His last chance to ask for whatever he wanted, and Sherlock would do his damnedest to give it to him. But there was really only one thing he wanted. "Whatever is going to hurt you the least," he whispered.

"It really bothers you."

"Yes."

"About me. I don't understand; why would it bother you?" _You're dying_. It didn't need to be said.

John made an annoyed noise in the back of his throat. "For a detective, you really aren't very observant, are you?"

"Consulting detecting," he couldn't seem to help himself.

"Sherlock…" John groaned, but it turned into a sigh. "I love you. You're an idiot, but I love you."

In the pause, John could hear tears dripping. "What am I going to do without you?" Sherlock's voice was steady, so all John did was reach out a hand. Sherlock threaded their fingers together and held on tightly.

"Be around your friends."

"I haven't got friends, John. I've still only got the one."

John squeezed Sherlock's hand, fighting back the flood of tears threatening to drown him. "That's not true. You've got Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and Molly now, too. You're not alone, Sherlock. You're not alone," he whispered, his lower lip starting to tremble.

Silence enveloped them, and John thought that for the first time in his life, Sherlock couldn't find words.

"That thing that you offered to do… doing what would be easy on me… that was, um, good. But unnecessary."

John laughed despite himself, a few tears slipping down his cheek that he didn't bother to wipe away. "You realize what emotion you're showing, don't you?"

Sherlock made a noncommittal noise. "Sentiment?"

"Sentiment. Good." John looked over at Sherlock, who was already staring intently at him. "Come here." John patted the bed beside him, knowing this would probably break the both of them and trying to make himself not care.

Sherlock stood and walked around the bed, toeing off his shoes before lying down on his back beside John. "That crack needs to be filled," were the first words out of his mouth.

John laughed a broken laugh, reaching his hand over to take Sherlock's.

The next hours passed slowly, for which John was glad. They talked through all of the cases they had worked, picking out favorites and the ones that were the most thrilling.

John listened while Sherlock told him how he had come to the realization of how he loved John, how it had slowly dawned on him and then all of a sudden barreled into him with the force of a train.

John wasn't sure if he was glad to hear the story or not. He decided on glad, because _not_ meant another hour of crying, and that was time they didn't have.

When they ran out of things to say, they just laid there. John turned on his side, wrapping an arm around Sherlock and nestling his head against his chest. Sherlock was stronger than he was. He always had been, and now he was proving it. Sherlock reached up with his hand and ran his fingers through John's hair, easing his mind as they laid in silence.

John's years of medical training and watching people die couldn't have prepared him.

It started with his vision. One second he was tracing the wallpaper pattern with his eyes and the next everything was a blur. In the next instant, he couldn't feel his fingertips or his toes. "Sherlock," he said, and even he couldn't miss the fear in his voice.

"It's alright, John. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."

John closed his eyes, unable to deal with the fact that his vision was going. "I can't feel anything," he whispered, his voice breaking.

John heard Sherlock sob, and there were suddenly lips pressed to his. He lied. He could feel that. "Maybe it's for the better if you don't feel it," Sherlock choked out.

John's lip trembled and tears slipped from his eyes. "What if I didn't do enough, Sherlock? Didn't save enough people, didn't impact enough lives?"

"Oh, John." He could tell it was a struggle for Sherlock to form words. "You did well, John. Really well. Better than most."

It was getting harder to breath. He dragged in a long breath so that he would have enough air to form the words he needed to say. "I love you, Sherlock."

Sherlock became unraveled, and John could get nothing from him but sobs for a good long while. His breaths were short now; he felt like he was floating, tethered to something and waiting to be let go.

"Save a spot for me."

"I thought you weren't religious?" he breathed out, barely able to manage that.

"Save one for me regardless. I love you, John Watson."

John let himself go.

Sherlock stared out across the cemetery, remembering the funeral that had just finished up a short while ago.

It had been… good. John would have approved. Not a big fuss was made over him—few people showed up to do it. John had made his mark on the world; he just hadn't made it here in London. Harry had showed up, of course, and she had said a few words, but she had handed the spotlight over to him almost immediately.

Sherlock hadn't known what to do for only a few short moments before he started talking. He didn't tell a funny story or list off John's accomplishments. No. He told everyone what John had seen in others, how he would get disappointed when people didn't live up to his expectations of them. How he would beam when people would surpass those expectations. He told the tale of a man who was, in many ways, more observant than Sherlock could ever hope to be.

John's coffin had been draped in a flag, a three-volley solute with seven rifles had been given, and _The Last Post_ had played as he was lowered into the ground.

Yes, John would have approved. Sherlock certainly had.

He turned back around, staring at the headstone in front of him—white with smile blue lines chasing through it. He thought John would have thought it fitting. And Sherlock liked how contrastingly soft and sharp it was all at once, like John had been.

**Captain John H. Watson**

Nothing more, just a name; like the black headstone that sat to its right. Sherlock glanced over at the headstone he had watched John cry over. He had had the body that was buried there exhumed so that when it was his time to go, he could be buried next to John.

_Sentiment, Sherlock? It's about time._

Sherlock smiled at the soft whispering of John's voice in his head. He didn't mind the voices. Hopefully they would take him through to the end.

After all, endings aren't quite so bad.

_What's Moriarty?_

_You cracked the code, though, Sherlock. And maybe Dimmock can track down all of them now that he knows it._

_You ripping my clothes of in a darkened swimming pool. People might talk._

_What'd she say?_

_Where are you going?_

_Sherlock!_


End file.
